"I once made a voyage in the ship "Laguna" from Boston to Cadiz and back with a cargo of salt. Coming home we had a Cuban planter and his son, a boy of nineteen, as passengers. The boy was always whistling, and our mate, who was a regular old sea-dog, who hated to hear whistling, except in a calm when it would help to raise the wind, kept prophesying that the nightingale, as he called the boy, would be sure to bring some bad luck. One day, when a heavy swell was running, but the wind had nearly died away, a large shark came up in our wake and followed the ship. The boy was leaning over the taffrail watching the shark, and his father was walking up and down the poop deck with his pocket-knife in his hand, whittling a stick. The ship suddenly gave a heavy pitch and the boy lost his balance and tumbled overboard. He screamed as he fell, and the father gave another yell and jumped overboard after him. There was a pretty kettle of fish then. The main yard was thrown aback, though the ship wasn't making much headway, and everything handy about decks was tossed overboard--gratings, life-buoys, and planks. Most everybody threw something, and the carpenter, who was a stupid muff of a fellow, wanted to do his share towards the rescue, so he picked up his grindstone and threw that overboard. The passengers disappeared immediately, and as nothing could be seen of them from aloft it was useless to get out a boat. We filled away again with sad feelings, and the old mate said Nightingale might whistle the whole passage if he would only come back. In a little while the captain spied a shark under the stern. He got the shark-hook and put a big junk of salt pork on it, and soon the shark took hold. We slipped a running bow-line around his tail and hauled him on deck. After we had smashed his head with handspikes we cut him open, and there we found the man, the boy and the grindstone. The boy was turning the grindstone and his father was sharpening his knife in order to cut a hole in the shark to get out of. They were greatly astonished to find themselves on our deck again, and the father said it was little short of a miracle." It is hard to tell how a vessel ever escapes from this doldrum region; but by using her chances, constantly spreading her wings to every fitful breath and gaining a little day by day, she at last strikes an air that is not a catspaw. It gradually increases, and soon is pronounced to be the S.E. trades. Such was our lot when we reached lat. 3° N., and the day after, we sailed swiftly across the line in lon. 31° 30´, thirty-four days out. Passing to windward of the Island of Fernando Noronha, we sped along through the most charming region of the sea, that of the south-east trades in the South Atlantic. CHAPTER II. A SAUCY SAILOR. One night in the Trades, while the mate's watch were bracing the yards, I heard the sound of angry voices on deck. The next morning I asked the mate if he had any trouble with any one in the middle watch.